


Walk Through the Valley

by Lord_Twinkle



Series: The Sun Settles Hard in the South [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American South, Amputation, Broken Bones, Cake, Domestic Violence, Everyone's gay, Explicit Language, F/F, First Kiss, Food Deprivation, Gun Violence, Guns, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mention of school shooting, Mormonism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Guilt, Suicidal Thoughts, fight me, leaving religious cult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26530855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lord_Twinkle/pseuds/Lord_Twinkle
Summary: Modern!AU taking place in the American South.Gawain, a park ranger to the Yosemite State Park, who has left Texas after losing his entire family through the course of his life.Lancelot, a young man raised by a christian fanatic, stuck in a living situation which he cannot escape.They become linked by a simple phone booth.
Relationships: Celia/Morgana | Igraine (Cursed), Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue/Pym (Cursed), The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed) / Mental Healthcare, Yeva (Cursed) / Polly the Healer (Cursed)
Series: The Sun Settles Hard in the South [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1987339
Comments: 67
Kudos: 110





	1. Hear Here

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I don’t know much about the American South, and from what I understand, Texans are mighty welcoming. I do not write this to offend, but to entertain. So ya know, take the bullshit that comes out of my brain with a grain of salt large enough to cause a kidney stone.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely people on the Lancewain fan server for discussing this idea with me and letting me use of these ideas freely.
> 
> The whole thing is based on a picture of a phone booth I saw passing on Tumblr.
> 
> Music inspiration: In the Beginning by Weyes Blood

Lancelot had lived in Terlingua for as long as he could remember. His family and he lived near one of the only towns in the area that hadn't been completely abandoned. The oil having run dry and work being too scarce, most people had left. The arid Texas weather was not quite for them anymore. Lancelot could scarcely imagine why anyone would choose to leave a place of such harsh and subtle beauty, but, he guessed, to each his own.

He particularly liked to drive out to the Santa Elena canyon. He’d spend hours trekking, exploring and climbing the rocky grounds. He loved the dusty and coppery smell of the place, loved the scarce vegetation that clung low to the ground in order to survive, except for the randomly tall cacti, and he loved to look at what wildlife he would chance upon. When he could, he would sketch the occasional snake, roadrunner, or insect. By now, he had sketchbooks upon sketchbooks of them, in very accurate details and descriptions to accompany the drawings.

Lancelot loved it so much that if it had been permitted, he would have spent the entirety of his time logging in all the creatures he found, but he needed to help his family with the various tasks around the house and the junkyard they ran.

The young man had a large family. Six brothers and sisters in total. All rescues from various situations.

The patriarch of the family, Carden, was a devout man. The story went that he had saved each and every child from a situation that would have otherwise endangered their immortal souls. Carden had a gift, he said. A gift from God that would allow him to protect souls born to corruption and give them a life that would repent them in the eyes of their Lord and Savior. Lancelot often thought himself quite lucky that he had been spared a life of sin. Still, a life of repentance was not an easy one.

More so because his father hated the government. Most of the work around the house involved keeping them as off grid as possible - they made their own electricity, cultivated and brought up most of their own food, and had a system to maintain a source of clean water. None of the children had any type of documentation that would have made them known to the state. This also meant no school. Carden and the older kids took care of whatever education they deemed useful.

It was a shame, Lancelot thought privately, he would very much have liked to go. He sometimes drove near the tiny Terlingua college, when he was sent on errands, so he could look at the kids coming and going from the tall majestic building - just like he would the creatures he sketched in the canyon.

***

Gawain was leaving. He was done. Done with all this Great American South bullshit. It had cost him his family and his sanity. His no-good father had died during the Fort Davis Mountain standoff when he had refused to back down with the rest of the separatists. It had broken their mother. They’d moved, tried to begin again, tried to get away from the ghost of the man who had ruined their family’s reputation. But it had been too much for Georgina Knight. She had ODed a few years after and he was left as sole guardian for his brother - he had been 18 and the small one 7. If that wasn’t enough, about a week ago, an armed student entered the High School his brother attended and took the child away from him.

So, you would have to forgive him if after attending his little brother’s funeral, he was driving away from Texas. It was either that or the gun he kept hidden in his sock drawer.

He just drove. It didn’t matter where he ended up. As long as there were fewer homophobes, less racism… and no fucking guns.

He broke off from the road only to stop for gas. This place was one shitty highway stop. More so than the others.

His eyes caught on the flickering neon of a phone booth. 

_ Talk to God _ , it read. And didn’t that just sound like something he desperately needed - to yell at a deity that had brought him nothing but misery.

He picked up the line, well intending to give the righteous Maker a piece of his mind.

It rang. The finicky prerecorded voices of a woman and a man came on. It was a christian suicide prevention line. He listened to the sermon for a while before hanging up hard. It was the same shit as usual: hell awaits any soul cowardly enough to send themselves there.

No Maker. No soothing words. No peace.

He should have been heaving with rage, but there was none of that left in him these days. Instead, he started laughing. Laughing the laugh of people who have nothing left to lose.

He took out the multi-tool knife he carried in his back pocket and began scratching his own number on the handle of the phone. 

As he drove away in the noon heat, he told himself: ‘Let the next poor bastard call me instead. I can do no worse than these idiots. At least, I will try.’

He never thought anyone would use it.

***

Lancelot jumped in his pickup truck and slammed the gas in, kicking up sand as he left his dilapidated home.

It had been sickeningly hot for the past week and it had finally been broken by a thunderstorm. The roads of the small Texan town were slick like oil. But Lancelot drove at a dizzying speed. He couldn’t bother to care: the roads were empty, as usual, and a crash might at least make him feel something besides the void numbness that filled him after a beating. Besides, he was too busy nursing his bruised face and his quite surely broken wrist.

He had tried to be good. He always did his best and it was never enough. No matter what he did, he was damned.

Father saw it in him - always had. It needed to be corrected and the only way Carden knew of was to beat the devil out of him.

This time had been different though. Carden had found Lancelot with a biology book that was definitely not from their small library and he had flown into a rage. The man had used the book to hit some sense into him, understanding at once that Lancelot had borrowed this book from the local library. Not only had he taken this from a government sanction organisation, but he had also brought forbidden knowledge into the house. It was unforgivable. Father had told him so: where all the others were not beyond salvation, Lancelot was doomed.

Lancelot took it. Always did. And when it was done, he tucked the rage and the hurt in the delicate corners of his eyes and he took to the road.

The wide open spaces usually soothed him eventually. But tonight he drove a long, long time before he felt he had gone far enough.

It was as good as any other place to stop. He kicked his door open and walked several feet in the car’s spotlights before dropping to his knees and letting a pent-up scream rip through his throat. It quickly lost energy and fell back on broken sobs.

As they subsided, he dragged to the cargo bed of his truck where he kept a first aid kit and put himself to work. He couldn’t go to a hospital as he had no ID and because of the deeply entrenched fear it would lead some form of agency back to his family. After this many years, he had learned to patch himself up well enough.

When he was done, he finally took the time to look at his surroundings.

Here, in the middle of nowhere, next to an abandoned gas station and the wide expanse of star-speckled sky, stood a dilapidated phone booth. It was offensively baby blue with a large sign on top that read ‘TALK TO GOD’ and in smaller lettering under it ‘Hear-here’.

And wasn’t that just the epitome of irony. After a while eying it, he dropped from the back of the truck and took a turn around it. He couldn’t really tell what it was, but his curiosity almost always got the better off him. Yet another flaw of his character.

He picked up the receiver and listened. There was nothing.

Of course, he thought, of course it was silent.

New tears streamed hot along his face. He wanted to punch the dialer in, but cradled his need for rage back into its cage.

As he gently hung the receiver back in, his hand rubbed against something etched in the handle. He took a closer look. It was a phone number preceded by a scandalizing ‘For a good time, call...’

Well. After everything that had happened that day. What was one more sin?

***

It was the middle of the night when his phone blared him awake. He felt around for a little, unwilling to open his eyes. It was probably the ranger’s office in need of back up - either the raccoons were at it again or some kids were setting fires where they shouldn’t be.

“Hello?” He mumbled sleepily.

There was no response, only small huffs. He strained his ear - on the other end, someone was crying softly.

“Hello?” He tried again.

The sobs receded enough for a tired hushed voice to answer: “God doesn’t love me.”

Gawain sat up slowly in his bed. Was this... No way.

“Well,” he answered gently, rubbing a hand over his face. “He never bore much love for me either. So, we have that in common.”

For a moment, there was nothing but breathing. Lancelot knelt on the dusty cement floor, clutching the phone so hard his knuckles were white.

“What - what do I do now?” His voice shook slightly.

Lancelot heard the man on the other end sigh and was almost certain he shrugged.

“We live. We do our best to have a good life. By our own standards. We owe ourselves that much. And we make God regret he did not try harder when we begged for his help.”

Somewhere deep inside of him, Lancelot had always known the words the man gave him - God would not come for him. A new tiny hurt noise cracked involuntarily through his teeth.

“Hey,” the voice of the stranger took him out of his contemplation. “What’s your name?”

Lancelot hesitated. Father would not have liked him giving out private information to a complete stranger. But a tendril of rebellion had made its way into his mind.

“Lancelot. My name is Lancelot.”

Gawain smiled. “Lancelot,” he mulled the name within his mouth, “I’’m Gawain. Pleased to meet you.”

What a lovely name, he thought. Lancelot gave a small huff of humour at the craziness of the situation. He felt safer right now than he ever had in his entire life.

Gawain continued. “So, Lancelot. Tell me everything.”


	2. Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lancelot knows that if he wants to be able to contact Gawain again, he will need to be resourceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, researching Terlingua a little for the purposes of this fic, I discovered there’s only about 60 people living there… which damn, I thought I came from a small town (little less than 1000 souls). Anyway, it changed my intentions a little, but no biggy. But also, now I’m sort of obsessed with that place. It’s so weird.

By the time Lancelot finally hung up the phone, Gawain making him promise to call again within the next few days, a wonderfully blood orange sun was rising over the flatlands. It was going to be a nice day.

He breathed in the calm.

He felt as though an important burden had been taken off his shoulders. Although he was unsure what exactly had lifted, speaking to Gawain had made him realise that for the longest of times, he had felt completely, utterly alone.

Now, things were different. Interesting how something as simple as a phone call could change everything in an instant.

Lancelot had every intention of calling Gawain again. There were a few problems with that: he did not own a phone, did not have access to money to use a pay phone - he was only allowed to handle that which father gave him for gas and to pick up extra groceries - and he couldn’t drive out to the dilapidated godless phone booth whenever it pleased him.

There was only one solution he could think of. Lancelot had to get a job.

***

By the graying colour of the California sky outside his cabin, Gawain judged he had about two hours before sunrise.

He could have gone back to bed, try to get some much needed sleep, but his mind was filled with the dulcet tones of Lancelot’s voice.

Instead, he put a pot of coffee to brew on the small iron stove in his kitchen and went to sit in his favourite rocking chair on the front balcony, and let the cool morning air sober him up.

He really had not expected anyone to ever use the number he had etched in the phone booth some years ago. But he was glad someone had.

Lancelot, he reminded himself. A curious name to be sure. Then again, no more than Gawain, he chuckled softly to himself.

Yet, he couldn’t help but feel concerned about what the younger man had told him. About his family, his life in the ghost town of Terlingua, so close yet so far from Fort Davis. It had dredged up memories he did his best to bury as far as his consciousness permitted - the South coming back to haunt him. In that, they were the same. What was clear was that Lancelot’s life wasn’t an easy one. And Gawain had the urge to get this man he barely knew out of it.

For now, he sipped his coffee and tried to come up with ways he could help. It was going to be a long few days until he finally heard back from Lancelot.

***

Instead of driving back to Terlingua, Lancelot drove to Marfa, the next town over and much less of a godforsaken place.

It was not his first time in Marfa. He often went there when he wanted to get away from his family for a little. Father would never come and get him in these parts as he avoided the town like the plague. You see, Marfa had a famous art residency which attracted all kinds of people from outside Texas. All yuppies and dirty leftist hippies - people so corrupt they were sure to end up in Hell - or so father said. But, in the recesses of his own mind, Lancelot didn’t quite agree. When he had first chanced upon some of the sculptures taking shape around town, his only thought had been that these people must have God guiding their hands to make such beautiful shapes appear from sheer matter.

In short, he loved this place, even if the amount of people sometimes overwhelmed him.

There was one place in particular Lancelot held a special fondness for and that is where he made his way now.

It was 11am when he finally made it into town. The streets were bustling with as much activity as a town of barely a thousand people permitted.

He parked and dropped out of his truck, pulling the hood of his jacket up. He stood in front of the large windows for a while, contemplating the peeling paint of the outdoor sign that read _Crossroads - Bookstore_. Inside was a small notice: Help wanted. It had been there for a while now. 

It was a gamble. If he did get the job, it would be a nightmare keeping it from father. And if he didn’t, he may not find the means to talk to Gawain again. He barely knew the man, but that thought stung more than the idea of father finding him out.

Lancelot clung to his courage with both hands and entered. He let the smell of fresh pressed paper wash over him and headed for the desk at the back.

The woman sitting there was in her early 60s, but sprightly. Her cowboy boot clad feet were up on the desk and she wore a floral blouse, her look completed with a wide brimmed hat, a long red feather tucked on the side. She had the longest hair Lancelot had ever seen. It was so white, it looked like it had been poured out from the moon. There was definitely an air about her which, had Lancelot believed in such things - and maybe he did, just a little - would have told you she was a witch. If he was honest, the woman terrified him. But he loved her bookshop. He came in fairly often. Maybe once or twice a week, if he found the time. And yet, they had never spoken.

She did not look up from her book as Lancelot stood next to the counter. Seeing as she wasn’t paying attention to him at all, Lancelot almost lost his nerve, when the woman let out a huge sigh of exasperation. Not raising her eyes from her reading she inquired: “Well? What is it, boy?”

Lancelot tried to calm the bird trapped in his ribcage trying to break itself free before blurting out: “I’m here about the sign in your window.”

Finally, Yeva looked up, taming the surprised expression that had tinged her face for a second. She peered at Lancelot. “I’ve seen you in here before, haven’t I? You come in pretty often, but you never buy anything.” Her Texan lilt barely made her words sound less like a reproach and more like a mere curiosity.

Lancelot wrung his hands. “Yes, ma’am” he answered simply, his eyes fixed on a crack in the floorboards.

She closed her book with a pang - _War and Peace_ , which you may know, makes a very satisfying sound due to its thickness - took her feet down, and leaned in her armchair, peering at him with her piercing eyes. “Honesty. Well, that’s surely an honourable trait. Take off your hood boy, so I can get a better look at ya.”

His heart dropped. He knew that by now, his face would be bruised and puffy from the cover of the thick manual he’d been punished with. But he was not one to contradict a direct order.

The woman gasped. “Jesus Christ kid! What happened to you?” She swiftly circled her desk and crowded his space, reaching to inspect his battered face. He took a step back instinctively and leaned his head away from her hand. She stopped her motion half way, noticing his flinch.

“Ok, alright. I’m not gonna touch you kid. Just - wait here a minute?”

He chanced a look at her face, all her hostility was gone and had been replaced with a look of concern. Living in father’s house, one became quite good at reading facial expressions, and what actions they may entail.

He gave a short nod and stood awkwardly as Yeva locked up shop. She walked past him and gestured for him to follow her. They passed through the back store and went up a staircase which led to the woman’s apartment. It was cozy and warm. There was not a single piece of the walls that wasn’t occupied by a photograph or painting, there were books strewn everywhere, and in a corner of the living room, a small decorated shrine to the Black Madonna* - maybe the woman truly was a witch to have such an icon displayed in plain view.

He followed her into the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and gave a stern _sit_ , and Lancelot did. She busied herself for a bit - putting a kettle on and preparing two mugs with some leaves, then taking a towel and getting ice out of the freezer, which she gently offered him.

“Thank you,” he murmured and pressed the ice to his face. He hadn’t noticed how much it had actually hurt until he pressed the cool cubes to it, closing his eyes as he did and letting a small sigh of relief escape his mouth.

“You’re one of those kids from Terlingua, aren’t you?” he heard Yeva demand more than ask. If she was delicate in gesture, she certainly lacked it in speech. “The ones who are being raised by that christian lunatic - Carden I think his name is?”

It made him feel noxious to hear someone speak about father that way. “Father has been nothing but good to me,” his tone was just short of defending. “I would stray from the righteous path much more often if it wasn’t for him. I owe him everything.”

“Yeh? And do you owe him that nasty bruise on the side of your face too?”

When he said nothing, she took it as an affirmative. She sighed deeply and rose to take care of the whistling kettle. As she filled the mugs, she continued: “We don’t usually see any of y’all up here - although we hear plenty - so, I’m guessing you’re not quite as ‘ _good_ ’ as Carden would like, aren’t ya?”

Lancelot shrunk on himself. “Now, now. Don’t worry. That’s fine. Actually, I admire that, kid,” she said as she placed the steaming mug in front of him, it had the pleasant aroma of wild roses and hibiscus flowers. “It means you’ve actually got a good head on those shoulders.”

She looked at him seriously for a little. “Tell you what, boy. You’ve got the job if you let me take you to see a friend of mine. She’s a doctor, she can have a look at you.”

Lancelot really wanted that job. But a doctor meant the hospital. And he couldn’t.

“Miss Yeva,” he started shakily, “Look, I really appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but I do not need your charity.”

“It’s not charity. I need you in good shape if you’re gonna be organizing the backstore. Those boxes full of books aren’t going to be easy to lift and seeing as that wrist of yours has a mighty queer angle, I’m guessing you’re going to be of no help to me.”

Lancelot narrowed his eyes at her. Because of his background, most people he met thought him simple. Lancelot was far from a simpleton and he could see that this was a ploy to get him to accept the help. Yeva only gave him a half-smile, slightly mischievous.

He thought about the sleep addled voice of Gawain and the easy conversation they had had for hours. It was the closest he’d ever come to a friend and he wasn’t ready to lose him so soon.

He slumped a little in defeat. “Alright.

“Excellent! Drink your tea and we’ll get going, kid.”

Yeva smiled secretly to herself. In what seemed like a lifetime ago, she’d been a social worker and it would seem she hadn’t lost the touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The Black Madonna also known as Saint Erzulie Vantor, patron saint of lesbians


	3. The Brink of Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gawain gets coaxed into talking about his newest headache.
> 
> Lancelot receives help he wasn't expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the super enthusiastic comments I've been getting on this fic! I hope I prove myself worthy of them as I weave y'all the rest of the tale :)
> 
> For this part, I am assuming that Yeva and Polly are a lot closer in age than they actually are in the series. So imagine an early 60s Polly.
> 
> Music inspiration: Sang D’encre - Jean Leloup; I’ve got something - Thao & The Get Down Stay Down

“Earth to Gawain, Earth to Gawain, do you copy?” said Pym, imitating the crackling of a radio.

Gawain blinked a few times. He had been completely lost in thought. The truck had come to a stop and Pym had probably been saying something, but for the life of him he couldn’t guess what.

“What?” he said, slightly disoriented.

“We’re here! We volunteered to go clear a trail, remember?”

He frowned.

“Wow,” Pym looked him over. “You having another bout of insomnia? No chainsaw for you today, mister!” 

With that she jumped down the pickup, heading to the back to get the tools, Gawain hot on her heels.

“There’s no way I’m letting you anywhere near power tools ever again. Remember what happened last time?”

She pouted impishly as he took the mayhem bringer away from her. “Fine! But you have to tell me what’s up with you. You’ve been acting really weird for like three days now.”

Gawain took his hat off and passed his hand in his hair, as if trying to smooth his weariness with them. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

“Oh come on! After all the shit we’ve done together? Remember that time you said you found a pentagram in the middle of the woods down in the valley*? And I didn’t believe you? And then we went and there were like a bunch of people sacrificing a goat to the moon or something? It can’t be crazier than that!”

Gawain smirked recalling that strange,  _ strange _ night. He'd known Pym for a few years now and they had truly shared a few crazy experiences. All in a ranger's days work. Knowing full well that the woman wouldn’t let a bone go once she started picking at it, he spilled the beans. She listened intently while they went up the path where a tree had fallen. They began clearing the path as he finished retelling his first encounter with Lancelot.

“- and now, I can’t get him out of my head, Pym. I’m losing sleep over it.”

They were quiet for a while - Pym, her brows stuck together either because she was thinking or because there was a particularly stubborn branch.

When she finally spoke up, it was cautiously. “So - that phone number - that’s from when you left Texas right? After your brother’s -”

“Funeral? Yes.”

She stopped her work to look over at him, taking him as though she’d be able to see on his body where it hurt. “Are you alright?”

Gawain sighed and sat on the corpse of the tree to take a drink of water. “Honestly? I’m not sure. It’s bringing back a lot of memories I would rather not revisit.”

She nodded. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Not sure. For now, nothing. I’ll wait and see if he calls again.”

She came and sat next to him, taking off her hat to wipe the sweat on her brow. After a bit, she smiled mischievously at him. “Was his voice attractive? Like did he sound pretty?”

She said so while wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“No, what?” he elbowed her somewhat delicately. “He’s in a cult for God’s sake and accidentally called me from a christian suicide prevention line! And you’re asking me if he sounded pretty?!”

"Accident? Maybe, just maybe it’s  _ FATE _ ,” she answered with overly dramatic gestures.

"Pym -" He answered with a huff at her much too wide grin, “- you’re ridiculous.”

"Heeeey! That’s not very nice. You should know by now that I am right in most things.”

“Except when you’re not.”

“Methinks the hot ranger doth protest too much -”

“Oh shut up,” he said playfully, “Let’s get back to work.”

With that, he got up and pulled at the cord of the chainsaw so that the noise would drown out any other ludicrous suggestion the tiny redhead might make. 

He’d die before admitting that Lancelot’s voice was, in fact, quite attractive. But that was neither here nor there. Gawain truly hoped the young man would call him again. He wanted nothing more than to help this soul with which he already felt such kinship.

///

The drive to the clinic was a short one. Thankfully, the waiting room was fairly empty and Yeva let him sit while she went to speak with the receptionist.

Yeva had barely sat down when a small slender woman in a lab coat made her way to them. She had a kind open face with lines under her eyes that suggested she had a life full of joy, and when she smiled, the dimples it brought up should have been a crime.

“Really, Yeva?” she demanded with a healthy dose of humour, “Another stray?”

Yeva shrugged, standing to kiss the other woman on the cheek - it took Lancelot slightly aback, but he tried not to display any emotion - that certainly explained the Black Madonna in her living room. “What can I say? It seems I attract them. Polly this is… Damn I really have no manners - I didn’t even ask for your name, boy!”

“Lancelot,” he offered in his hushed manner.

Polly smiled gently at him. “Well Lancelot, will you follow me to my office? We can have a look at that wrist.”

He gave a wary look back at Yeva, hating himself for already trusting a complete stranger. She whispered “I’m right behind you. I won’t go anywhere unless you want me to.”

He nodded to Polly and followed her into an examination room.

Lancelot had never been in a clinic before. It smelled like something clean that made his nose curl and the light was disconcerting. He stood awkwardly by Polly’s desk while she set a sanitary sheet on her patient’s table.

“Alright Lancelot. I’m gonna need you to remove that jacket first. Can you do that for me?”

Again, he gave her a simple nod and took his good arm out of the sleeve before attempting to take care of the damaged one. Polly helped him to ease out of it with practiced hands. Underneath, he wore an overly large plaid shirt. It was easy enough for the doctor to roll up the sleeve. What she found underneath displeased her greatly.

His wrist was so swollen, it had doubled in size, and his ulna was sticking out of place. If it was but for the wrist, that would have been one thing, but it wasn’t: lining Lancelot’s arm were bruises and long thin cuts, old and new, which were not due to the rigors of manual work. She sighed. It would have to wait. They had more pressing matters.

“First things first Lancelot, I need to do a fracture reduction, which means I need to set your bone, the one right here, back in place,” she pointed at the bone in question, “Not gonna lie, it’s gonna hurt like a bitch for a week or two after this.”

She went through the motions, making sure that Lancelot knew what she was doing every step of the way. She answered all of his questions, especially the ones about the local anesthetic, which he seemed mildly terrified of. He admitted he’d never had anything administered with a needle. So then, she also offered a tetanus shot, just in case, and said he could get all his shots eventually - if he so desired. She didn’t want to overwhelm him, although it was becoming apparent he already was, just from having her hands on him.

He made no sound when she set his bone in.

As she was stitching the wound on the side of his face, she felt his eyes flicker to her face every once in a while.

“Something you want to ask, hon?”

The young man hesitated. “My father says that doctors are tools of the state. That you’re work serves to indoctrinate the masses. But - you haven’t done anything without my saying it was ok. Would you have forced me?”

In the corner of the room, Yeva snorted. But Polly didn’t laugh, she’d heard worse. “I certainly would have tried to advise you to take as much help as I could offer, but I cannot make these decisions for you. All I can do is give you as much information as I can and help you with whatever you decide to do with your body. So, no. I wouldn't have forced you.”

He hummed thoughtfully, but did not ask anything else.

When she was done with his face, she started looking him over. “Ok Lancelot, this is looking good. I would like to check if you’re hurt anywhere else.”

It was almost imperceptible, she may not have caught it if she weren’t so sharp eyed, but the boy flinched and a mild look of fear flashed on his face before being replaced by a careful blankness. Reluctantly, he gave her permission, and shrunk even further on himself as her hands began roaming his frame. In normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have continued her examination as it was obvious, the boy was growing increasingly uncomfortable. But something was wrong and there was no way she was going to leave him in pain, especially since it would be unlikely he would seek out help again.

She was reassured when she found no new breaks, but it was too soon: as she pressed her hand over his shoulders, they found ridges and mountains that made the boy flinch. From the top of his collar, she could see white and brown lines peaking out.

“Lancelot… is it alright if I lift your shirt to look at your back?”

Yeva looked up from the book she had brought, hearing the edge in her partner’s voice. Lancelot looked absolutely miserable and a few tears threatened to make their way down his face. Polly could feel him trembling like a leaf. She circled the table to face him and placed a reassuring hand on his own.

“It’s ok to say no. You don’t have -”

“If I let you see them, then you will know... You will know that I am nothing but a profligate wretch.”

She slowly lifted her hand to his face, letting him plenty of time to retract, and pushed a rebel curl behind his ear before wiping his tears.

“I really, highly doubt that. All I can see in front of me right now is a young man with soft eyes and a good heart who needs my help. And believe me, I’m a great judge of character,” she ended with as reassuring a smile as she could give, given the situation.

“She really is,” Yeva chimed in.

At this point, Lancelot was so tired and overwhelmed with the situation that he did not have the strength to deflect. He unbuttoned his shirt with his good hand and Polly helped him ease it off. What she saw was a map of bruises, scars, and cuts. His back lacerated as though he’d been whipped repeatedly over several years. Worse than that, the direction of the most recent wounds suggested that he had inflicted them himself. Polly had never seen anything like it and hoped to all the gods she could name she would never again. His flesh was a tribute to a history of abuse that would be hard to fade either physically or mentally. She gestured for Yeva to have a look before beginning the painful work of cleaning them.

The other woman took a summary glance before bringing her chair closer so she could look up into Lancelot’s face. “Hey, kid?” his gaze flickered to hers. “You’re alright. You’re safe. Neither of us would ever even dream of hurting you.”

Lancelot was picking at the skin around his nails in a nervous motion, his eyes darting everywhere except for her own. Yeva, being the stubborn, slightly bullying, but well-meaning, person that she was, couldn’t leave it at that.

“Can you tell me how you got these? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” keeping her voice as low and soothing as she knew how

The boy said nothing. His eyes were glazed over and he looked a million miles away. Yeva took his hand in hers and squeezed it. It seemed to bring a simulacrum of himself back into his body. She took this as a good sign, so she pressed gentle circles onto the back of his palm and began reading aloud from her book, unsure of what else she could do to distract him from whatever was happening under those soft curls.

By the time Polly was done, he was listening intently and his shaking had receded. After he had pulled his shirt and jacket back on, Polly filled in a prescription for mild painkillers, which she gave him with no expectation that he would actually use it, and also gave him plenty of gauze and ointment to redress his wounds. When they left, Lancelot stopped in the doorframe, turning around nervously and whispered a “thank you” to Polly. She refrained from crossing the room to hug him.

On the drive back to the book shop, they were both quiet, until Lancelot unexpectedly broke the silence. “What was the book you read to me earlier?” Yeva might have missed it if the car hadn’t been utterly silent. Keeping her eyes on the road, she rummaged in her bag and set the book in his lap.

“Keep it. I have three copies,” she paused before adding, “Also, you’re sleeping at my place tonight. No ‘but’s,” She raised her hand in a placating gesture as Lancelot’s mouth had opened to give reassurances that served no one. “I’m not letting you drive all the way back to Terlingua in your state. Tomorrow, you may do as you please. But tonight, you’re my guest.” 

Lancelot scarcely understood how he had found himself in this situation. But he was too tired to argue any of it. Instead, he carefully turned around the gift Yeva had given him, like it was the most precious thing he had ever been offered.

The book was titled  _ The Song of Achilles _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * courtesy of a story I once saw on a park ranger sub-Reddit
> 
> Also, I looooooove The Song of Achilles and I feel like Lancelot deserves to read it. Let him have confusing gay feelings!


	4. Home is where the heart is - except when it isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, listen up ladies, lads, folks, enemies and friends. Gawain and Lancelot are going to meet either in the next chapter or the one after that. Just bear with me as I try to set up everything I need to make it real good.
> 
> In this chapter, I introduce Lancelot’s siblings. I decided to name them after members of the Church in Cursed and to stick somewhat to their personalities. I also decided to change Brother Salt’s name to Halle (which means ‘salt of the sea’) because I feel like Salt would be a weird name nowadays.
> 
> WARNING: scene of domestic violence
> 
> Music inspiration: Pain - The War On Drugs; Lovely - Billie Eilish & Khalid

The following morning, as promised, but not without practically shoving a hearty breakfast down his throat, Yeva let Lancelot set off for Terlingua. He was due to come back on Sunday to take up his first shift. It was the only day that wouldn’t be entirely too suspect to his father. Sundays were a day of worship and resourcing, but Carden never paid much attention to how exactly his children decided to do so, too busy with his own praying. 

It had been odd seeing the pair of women, Yeva and Polly, being domestic. Not only because Lancelot didn’t know much about romantic relationships - much less those he was taught were sinful - but because it was so unlike mornings in Carden’s household. He wondered if this place was an exception, if love like this was a rarity. It had to be. Otherwise, what did it say about his own family? Carden loved them, he said so repeatedly, but his love often left Lancelot looking for scars on his body - scars he knew he would never find. He convinced himself, that’s what redemption felt like.

The early morning light had slipped in through the windows. It had smelled like fresh coffee, warm bread, and sleep addled heads. Polly had run around looking for her things like a headless chicken - not wanting to be late - while Yeva had delicately reminded her where she had set them when she had finally come home from her long shift at the hospital. The librarian had packed her lunch and had pressed a firm kiss on her head as her small partner had run out the door. Then, she’d bullied Lancelot in eating more than he usually did in an entire day.

Satisfied, she had let him go.

Now, he was parking up the dirt road to the house. He shoved the medical supplies Polly had given him into the glove compartment and the book Yeva had gifted him in the back of his pants, as though it were a gun. Everyone would already be at the junkyard by now. Except for Iris who was charged with the maintenance of the house, being the only woman among them since their eldest sister Celia had left years ago.

Celia wasn’t the only one, Abel had also left to pursue an education and had become a minister. Contrary to their sister, he still visited sometimes, but it always ended badly. Father did not like that he was so ambitious and they often got into fights over it.

Of the six children, four remained under Carden’s guidance: Iris, who was barely 14 and the youngest of them, Lancelot, second to last, then there were Halle and Wicklow who were the eldest and both had their own houses on the patch of land Carden owned.

Wicklow had a good head for numbers, so Carden put him in charge of the bookkeeping for the junkyard and it had worked out well for them. He was the smartest one out of them, yet he never sought to use it entirely for his own gain, he only used his gifts in the service of the family business. Carden had raised him to be his successor and the young man took great pride in it.

As for Halle, he wasn’t as interested in knowledge as the other ones had been, but he was strong as a bull. He was particularly good when it came to taming horses. When Terlingua had started emptying, years before Lancelot was even born, some folks had set their horses free, no longer able to take care of them. This meant there were many wild horses roaming these parts. Halle had been able to catch quite a few and to properly break them in. Growing up, Lancelot had been rather fond of him, following him around like he was a puppy. He had even helped him tame a horse once. Goliath had been one of the best things to ever enter Lancelot’s life. He would be eternally grateful to Halle for it. Although, their relationship had slowly faltered as Halle started drinking.

Making sure the coast was clear, Lancelot dropped out of his truck, pulled his hood up to hide the stitches on his face, and made his way to the stables. Inside, he found a pair of work gloves to conceal the cast on his left arm. Satisfied with his sham, he began the work he should have done the day before. He shoveled hay into the horses pens and then set to give them all a brush down. He whispered soft praise to each and every one of them as he did. When he got to Goliath, he gave him the apple Yeva had given him for the road - he hoped she wouldn’t mind - and told his friend everything that had happened in the last 24 hours under his breath. Lancelot liked to pretend the beast understood everything he told it, and maybe it did: at the mention of Gawain, Goliath nozzled him with a firm headbutt. “Yeh I know buddy, I like him too.”

“Well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.”

Lancelot turned abruptly. He hadn’t heard anyone come in, too busy with the work at hand. Halle was standing in the door.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Lancelot inquired.

“Nah, father charged me with going to find you, but I figured you’d show up here eventually.”

He reeked of alcohol. It made Lancelot’s sensitive nose curl up uncomfortably - the smell always set him on edge. He put some distance between them by pretending to go check on some of the riding equipment.

“So, little brother,” he continued, “where have you been?”

“Around. Took the 385 until I was too tired to drive any further. Fell asleep and woke up so far it took me a while to get back.”

A moment later, his entire body was plastered against the wall and he yelped as his broken wrist was shoved far up his back. Halle hummed. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, brother,” his hand squeezed around his cast, “and what’s this?” He shoved his sleeve up and yanked the glove off.

The man chuckled, low and dangerous. “Motherfucker. Wait until father hears about this: little Lance has been to a hospital. If he broke your arm for stealing a book from the library, what do you think he’ll do to you for this?”

“Halle-” Lancelot pleaded with little hope and gritted teeth at the pain that shot hotly through his arm, “- please don’t tell him. Please.”

And just like that, Halle let him go. He placed a hand on his shoulder, making him flinch, and began laughing as Lancelot looked on completely terrorised. This is what he hated about Halle - Lancelot was very good at reading people, but the man was completely unpredictable to him.

When he had regained his composure, Halle exclaimed: “Ha! I’m just messing with you, kid! But you owe me one. And if father discovers it, I won’t help you.”

Lancelot nodded, his eyes now fixed on his brother’s boots, forcing tears to go back where they came from. Halle grabbed his hair firmly, yanking his face up to meet his eyes - despite Lancelot’s height, Halle was somehow even taller. “What do we say?” he demanded.

“Thank you.”

“That’s better. Now, get back to it.”

Thankfully, their father did not even lay eyes on him for the next few days, punishing him by not gracing him with any attention. Iris, for one, was delighted, as it meant she finally got an ounce of it. While it hurt, he was grateful for the quiet it allotted him and that his sister got some of the attention she so craved.

Sunday couldn’t arrive soon enough.

***

The job was simple: Yeva had been collecting books for so long that they piled as high as the ceiling - she needed someone to organise them.

He spent the morning unboxing volumes and began sorting them in piles depending on genre.

Around 1pm, Yeva went up to the apartment to make some coffee. She told him to keep an eye on the shop for 10 minutes. He wasn’t too keen at interacting with any kind of customer, but luckily, it was the dead season in Marfa so it was unlikely anyone would come in. 

But of course, luck didn’t seem to be in God’s plans for Lancelot’s life. The bell over the door of the Crossroads rang, followed by a loud: “Hey Ma! You down here?”

Lancelot stuck his head out of the back-store, curious to see who he’d find there. He was not ready for the tall elegant goth heading straight for him, two coffee cups in hand. She abruptly stopped at Yeva’s desk to inspect the jacket he had left there earlier like it particularly offended her. She was wearing the highest pair of heels he’d ever seen, almost bringing her to his own height, a black bustier and a long skirt made of a see through material, completed with a wide brimmed hat lined with a lace veil that covered her face and the heaviest looking necklace ever to grace anyone's neck. He attempted to make very little noise as he spied, but the floorboards gave him away.

She turned in a flurry of fabric and tinkling sounds of her many, many bracelets circling her wrists, raising her veil over her hat in a practiced motion as she did. “Who the fuck are you?” she demanded in an imperative tone. God, her features were soft, but the thin line of her lips and the small furrow of her brow made her terrifying. He couldn’t find his voice.

“Well?” she insisted depositing the cups on the desk where she was still standing.

He looked down at the ground and made sure his back was against a wall before clearing his voice: “Lancelot.” It sounded more like a question than an answer. The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this yours?” she took his jacket, his sketchbook falling out of the interior pocket where he had tucked it in, planning on sketching some of the local art when his shift was over. Loose pages fell everywhere. She didn’t pause to look at the mess. “What are you doing in here? Where’s my mom?”

Lancelot didn’t even know how to begin answering any of those questions, his eyes fixed on his sketches strewn over the floor. His heart was beating so fast, he was sure the woman could hear it from where she was standing.

Thankfully, Yeva’s voice came from the staircase in the backstore. “Morgana? Is that you, baby?”

_ Baby? _ That took Lancelot somewhat out of his mortification as Yeva made her way in the main room. “Mom, who's the fucking creep?” Morgana asked as the older woman took in the scene. “Language! This is Lancelot. He’s going to be helping me around the shop once a week,” she explained calmly, “Lancelot, this is my daughter, Morgana.”

Well, that certainly explained the hostility - must run in the family. Lancelot took a few breaths to try and undo the knot of panic in his throat. 

When he said nothing, Yeva gave a small slap on Morgana's shoulder with the back of her hand. “Did you spook him?”

“Ow ma! I didn’t!”

And just like that, the woman lost all credibility. She looked up at him, scrutinizing his body language.

“Holy Hell, I totally did. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t my intention. I just - wasn’t expecting a stranger.” 

Lancelot frowned a little. People didn’t usually apologise to him. He wasn’t sure what to do with it. Plus, there was something in her tone that tugged at his pride - like he was some kind of cornered animal that needed to be treated with care lest he bite. Slightly ashamed, he simply nodded and sank to his knees to pick up his scattered drawings. Yeva gave Morgana a meaningful look before taking his jacket from her hands and going to hang it in the back. 

Morgana carefully got down to help - how she could do anything in those shoes was beyond him. Soon, she was looking at them intently. “Woah. Did you make these?”

He didn’t generally let people see his drawings. One time, Halle had found some of them and had ripped them apart, saying they were conceit and a poor representation of God’s work. He was right of course, but Lancelot still indulged. He would punish himself appropriately afterwards.

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

Usually, Lancelot stuck to the things that he would encounter in nature. But the drawings that lay on the floor presently were a series of intricate surreal landscapes, filled with succulents, dust colored canyons littered with crosses and the tortured frames of people in the midst of revelations.

Morgana sat back, completely absorbed by one of them. “These are wonderful. Are you an artist?”

The question took him aback. Of course he wasn’t. Artists were people who made the wonderful things he saw sometimes around Marfa. His hands were not capable of such miracles. Besides, supposing he actually had the talent, father would assuredly kill him for giving in to such vanity.

“No.”

The woman looked him over again with those wide dark eyes of hers. They seemed to see something he couldn’t. “Well, maybe you should consider it.” She took her bag and rummaged for something. She handed him a card. “Here. I am part of the Chinati foundation. We organise creative events and host a residency here every year. If you ever want to meet some artists or if you wanna start honing your craft, ring me up.”

He took the card like he wasn’t sure if the edges would cut him. “Thank you,” he breathed out.

“Oh! Two full words!” she teased, “Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do for being so rude earlier. Hopefully, I can make up for it. In any case, well be seeing plenty of each other if you’re going to be working for my mom.”

She gave him a warm smile. He felt the corners of his own mouth twitch faintly as they picked up the rest. For some reason, he didn’t hate the idea of seeing more of the darkly clad woman.

***

At the end of the day, he asked Yeva if he could borrow the shop’s phone for a few minutes. Usually, he wouldn’t have asked, Yeva had already given him much more than he deserved. But he had promised Gawain to call him within the next few days and it had already been four. He would hate to break a promise he had made to someone who had been so kind to him. Yeva only smiled at his boldness and told him he could use the phone whenever he wanted.

The line went off. “Yes, hello?” answered a smooth voice.

“Gawain? It’s Lancelot,” he greeted in his small voice.

“Oh hey! I wasn’t sure you’d call again. I was - I was getting a little worried to be honest.”

“Worried?” he repeated.

“Yes, about you. That something might have happened to you,” Gawain explained, maybe with a bit of embarrassment in his tone.

_ Worried _ . Lancelot wasn’t sure what the feeling blooming in his stomach was, but he let the warmth of it wash over him. 

“I’m sorry. It took me a bit of time to figure out how to call again.”

“Yeh? How’d you do it?”

Lancelot told him everything about his new acquaintances, skipping over the bit about going to a clinic for the first time in his life. Despite not being entirely familiar with a ‘normal’ life, Lancelot knew that was a bit strange, and he didn’t want to give the man further reasons to worry - there really was no need for that.

When he was done, Gawain let out an impressed whistle.

“That couldn’t have been easy. You didn’t get in trouble did you?”

Lancelot’s mind went fuzzy for a little, his memory flooding him with images of the stable and of Halle - images he had been carefully contained until now. His eyes prickled.

“Lancelot?” His voice was grounding, more so than anything Lancelot had ever heard.

“No.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but his heart still told him it was wrong.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” he winced slightly and hoped Gawain hadn’t heard it.

There was a small pause. Gawain wasn’t buying it, but decided to drop it, not wanting to push the other man to speak of things he wasn’t ready to divulge. “Alright. If that changes, either let me know or this Miss Yeva. She seems like the reliable sort.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

He hesitated a bit. “Yes.”

“Good.” There was another silence, as though Gawain was rolling an idea through his mind. “I’ve been thinking. How would you feel if I came to visit you in Texas?”

The idea both knocked the wind out of Lancelot and made his heart pick up the pace. He thought for a while. “I think - I think I would like that,” a genuine smile spread on his face. It was gone as fast as it appeared. “Not at my home though.”

“No, don’t worry. I thought maybe we could go have a look at the Big Bend National Park.”

Lancelot gasped enthusiastically and launched into a long speech at how beautiful it was up there. Gawain had not expected that. The man spoke so sparsely unless prompted several times, it was surprising to hear him go off on a subject. Especially one that was so close to his own heart. It made Gawain smile fondly.

Hearing the younger man’s excitement, he tried to convince himself that going back to Texas would not be the end of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this is of any interest to anyone, but here is my playlist for this fic.
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4RvVkqjl5oej29NDDrMKBI?si=nZx5H2gQRgqREA_GNPGsQw


	5. Good Men

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before they actually meet! Are you excited? I am :P
> 
> I picked the family name Reid for Carden’s family as it means ‘red’ and is of Irish-Gaelic origin. Seemed fitting.
> 
> Also, if it wasn’t clear, and it probably isn’t, Carden’s family are Mormons.

They were set to meet in two weeks time at the main entrance of the Big Bends park.

Lancelot could hardly wait. But patience was a virtue and one he constantly exercised. In the meantime, he had work on the family ranch, contemplation, and Sundays in Marfa.

At least, there were still the phone calls.

“Gawain Knight’s phone, what can I do for ya?” answered an overly enthusiastic feminine voice.

“Uhm -” Lancelot started, confused. “Is Gawain around?”

“Oh! Is this  _ the _ Lancelot?”

“ - I am  _ a _ Lancelot?”

“Oh. my. Gosh. Gawain won’t shut up about you, but he won’t give me any details! And I was right: your voice  _ is _ attractive!” Lancelot blushed so hard, he thought his face might peel off from the heat. Then, something seemed to occur to her and her voice took a dangerous edge of protectiveness. “Lancelot. Sweet Lancelot, listen to me very closely. He is a good man. He is so good, he will do anything to try and help you. So, you better be worth it. Hear me? If you hurt him, I will track you down, carve out your heart and give it to the extremely rude raccoons of the Yosemite camp site. Are we clear?”

Now, Lancelot was so confused, the frown on his face gave him a slight headache.

In the background, he heard a familiar voice. “Pym, have you seen my -  _ give me that, you fiend _ . Who are you talking to??”

“Oh shit,” went the woman, sheepishly. “Bye Lancelot! Don’t forget what I said.”

There was shuffling and a few seconds later, Gawain was on. “Sorry about that. I hope she didn’t say anything too weird about me. I swear, I’m not as bad as she makes me out to be.”

Lancelot shook the threat out of his system.  _ On the contrary _ , he thought,  _ she thinks the world of you _ . 

“Uhm. Who was that?”

“Oh! That was Pym. She’s my trail partner. We’re rangers together. I might have mentioned her once or twice.”

“She seems - nice.”

Gawain laughed. It was warm and easy - it even made Lancelot smile a little. He seemed to be in a merry mood. “Terrifyingly optimistic, is what she is.”

“She cares about you,” he said gently.

“She does. She’s like family at this point.”

They were quiet for a little. Gawain needed to ask about something, but wasn’t sure how it would be received. “What about your family? Last time, you were talking about your sister - Celia, I think you said?

Lancelot had spoken extremely sparsely of his family since that first call. It worried Gawain how quiet the other man became whenever the subject was broached.

“Yeh.”

Gawain tried to tread lightly. “You said she left?” “Yes.” Lancelot always reverted to single word sentences when he was uncomfortable.

“Would you - would you tell me about her? It seems you two were close.”

There was a moment of silence and the sound of shifting on the other end of the receiver.

“I guess we were. For a time. Closer than I am with my other siblings in any case. She was always kind to me. Slipped me pieces of candied fruit when no one was looking.”

Gawain could hear the tiniest hint of a fond smile in his voice.

The ranger continued, emboldened by Lancelot's’ tone. “So she was a bit older than you?”

“Only by 5 years. She’s still the closest thing I ever had to a mother…” He hesitated before adding: “That wasn’t fair to her. She shouldn't have had to take care of us that way.”

“Is that why she left?”

Lancelot continued, softly. “Maybe? Father and her always argued. She wanted to get out of the house more, but in our religion, women are homemakers. It was really important to our father that she was a good one.”

Lancelot fell silent, reminiscent. Gawain was about to ask if he was alright, but Lancelot picked up again. “To buy peace once, he brought her back a violin he found during his shift in the junkyard. He thought that if she had a hobby, she might be a little more content.”

“Was she?”

“I don’t think so. She always looked sad. But she did love music. I still have a suitcase full of classical music tapes Abel brought to her when he visited and that she collected. Her favourite was Saint-Saëns’ Andromache. She left them all behind. I still listen to them sometimes.”

The thought of Lancelot stashed somewhere, secretly listening to operas and symphonies made Gawain smile softly - what a rebel this Lancelot was turning out to be. But that smile soon passed. Gawain knew that beyond the volume of the things people said to each other, it was the space between the words that really counted - the things implied; coiled up storms that we let wreak havoc inside ourselves. 

“Do you know where she ended up?”

Lancelot hummed a while, thinking. “Last we heard, she was attending some school in San Jose.”

“Would you like me to try and find her for you?”

The silence that followed weighted so densely that it might as well have been the heavy shroud of heat of this California night.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because… Because she would have said something if she wanted to hear from me… She would have said goodbye -” the man choked up a little.

Gawain’s heart couldn’t drop any further. Didn't this man have anything good in his life?  _ Me _ , thought Gawain,  _ he has me _ . And goddammit, Gawain was going to try. “I hope you get to see her again sometime. Despite everything.”

“Me too.” Answered the small voice.

***

What would it cost to look it up? Gawain pondered. Nothing, that was the answer. 

Lancelot hadn’t exactly given his permission, but he hadn’t exactly forbidden it either. And Gawain thrived in grey zones.

He picked up his phone and opened a search engine. He entered two simple words: Celia Reid. Lo and behold, Celia Reid - Royal Conservatory of Music in San Jose. Ah yes, of course Lancelot: 'Some school in San Jose'. Only the finest music institution in the area. It wasn’t much trouble to find contact information after that.

***

He sat in a small coffee shop across from the conservatory, a cup of coffee keeping him company while he waited. She was late.

He had begun wondering if this was really a good idea when a svelte woman sat carefully across from him, setting the case of a violin and her bag next to her in the booth. "Sorry - practice went longer than I expected."

She eyed him suspiciously, obviously trying to look braver than she felt. Before he could say anything, she added: “If this is some kind of ploy from Carden to bring me home, just know that the two guys in the booth behind us are friends and they will call the police if you so much as look at me the wrong way.” The guys in question waved at him, which he returned a little worried.

“Ploy? That seems a little elaborate, no?”

Celia gave a smile that did not reach her eyes. “You haven’t been around Mormons a lot, have you?”

“Heard it’s bad for your health.”

At that she did chuckle genuinely. She eyed him again for a small moment, and she seemed to reach a decision. “Look stranger -”

“Gawain.”

“- Gawain. I usually wouldn’t even have risked meeting you, but you mentioned my brother, Lancelot.”

She bit her lip, her hands fiddling with the paper apron in front of her. “Is he alright? Is he safe?”

Gawain wanted to reach out and hold her hand, her concern practically dripping off of her. “I spoke to him a few days ago, he was fine.”

She breathed out in relief and nodded. “So tell me, what brings you here?”

“Information. I feel that he needs help and I don’t know where to start.”

She seemed surprised, but it melted into something infinitely softer. “Knowing the household we grew up in, he probably needs all the help he can get.”

They spent the next three hours talking. He told her about how he’d met Lancelot and what he had summarized of his situation. She told him about life on Carden Reid’s ranch, about the Mormon faith and the extreme’s to which their father took it. Told him about the small boy Lancelot had been when he first arrived in their family, not speaking a word of English, but the rolling sounds of a language she hadn’t known was French at the time.

“One time,” she said, a lot more quiet and with a distant look in her eyes. “Father wanted to take Iris with the rest of the boys to the junkyard because they needed an extra pair of hands. I don’t know if you’ve ever been on one, but it’s so dangerous - the boys would constantly come back from there bruised and bleeding -”

She crossed her arms and leaned back into her. “Lancelot - bless him, he was only 14 or 15 - he stood up to Carden and told him that he’d work harder that day, that there was no need for Iris to go. Father really doesn’t like when anyone contradicts what he says, ya know? His word is law.” She took a shuddering breath and looked at him straight in the eye. “Father has this whip and -”

Tears threatened to drown her face out, but she pulled it together somehow. “I thought he’d killed him. That’s when I decided to leave. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Silence stretched between them as life in the cafe moved on - the sound of laughter and of spoons hitting ceramic. 

“I should have taken him with me.” she said dejectedly.

Gawain had been deep in thought, but he forced himself to surface. “Hey,” he said. She didn’t react, spiraling. “Hey,” now he did take her hand, trying to get her attention. 

“You did what you had to: you couldn’t know what would happen once you got out.” He tried to be comforting, but he knew from experience there was little he could do or say that would achieve that.

“He’s a good person, Gawain. And he deserves so much better than this.”

He nodded. He already knew that.

“Will you - will you help me get him out of there?”


	6. The One Thing in the Galaxy God Didn’t Have his Eyes on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING a little NSFW in a small place. A little bit of gay panic too.
> 
> Music inspiration: Cardamom - Weyes Blood; Flatlands - Chelsea Wolfe; Ahead By A Century - The Tragically Hip; Jane - The Mountain Goats
> 
> Chapter title from a lyric in the song Jane from The Mountain Goats

There, in the parking lot of the Big Bend park, was a man swinging his feet out of the trunk of his hatchback, looking at a map completely absorbed. He was young, no more than 25, with long golden brown hair peeking out under a battered baseball cap, and the skin of a person who has spent far too much time under the sun.

He got off Goliath’s back and led the beast in his direction, unsure. But there was seemingly no one else on the site today.

“Gawain?”

The man looked up surprised. An impossibly bright smile spread on his face. 

“Hi.” He said.

“Hi.” He heard himself respond, more timid than he should have been. His head helpfully supplied that it was because the man was, in fact, quite handsome.

“It’s good to finally meet you in person.” The man jumped to his feet and offered a hand.

_ Oh no _ , thought Gawain as he approached,  _ he’s gorgeous _ . His eyes were so blue - like a piece of sky on a perfect day - it should have been a crime. God only knew he was a complete utter fool when it came to blue eyes. He spared a thought for Pym’s malicious smile, but quickly shook it off. 

Lancelot looked at his hand as though he was unsure what he was supposed to do with it, but eventually loosely shook it. The other man carefully took him in, noticing the cast on his arm and the barely fading scar on the side of his face.

“Oh, what happened here?” He tried innocently.

Lancelot followed his eyes. “Uhm - accident. I fell.”

The younger man was not a very good liar, but he would let it slide. He wanted this first meeting to go as smoothly as it possibly could. He opted for a change of subject.

“And who is this handsome fella?” he gestured to the horse.

Lancelot relaxed as attention was taken off of him.

“This is Goliath. We think he’s a Criollo, but can’t really prove it.”

Gawain approached the beast and let it smell him before he patted its neck. “Heya there, Goliath,” he said low and enthusiastic. It made Lancelot’s heart squeeze in the best way possible.

“You’re different from what I expected.” He blurted out before he could stop himself.

“How so?”

Lancelot wasn’t even sure what he actually meant. So he went with: “Goliath doesn’t like many people.”

And it was true. Goliath was a  _ very _ stubborn horse. He only let Lancelot handle him around the ranch. Even Halle had trouble with him.

Gawain gave an undignified chortle. “Well, he obviously has very discerning tastes.”

That rooted out a small grin from Lancelot. And oh didn’t his face look even better with a smile on it.  _ Stop it _ , Gawain told his brain.

"Shall we?" He asked.

"Goliath will follow us, if that's alright." It made Lancelot feel better that he wouldn’t be alone with Gawain. While the man wasn’t a complete stranger, Goliath had always been a reassuring presence.

"The more the merrier!"

***

The trek up the bends was a tricky one, but they were both experienced with such terrain and they made good headway, stopping every once in a while to point out a plant, a neat rock, or some small animal scurrying around.

Lancelot regretted not bringing his sketch pad so he could get a bit of drawing in and notes on all the knowledge Gawain was gracing him with. So many things he did not know about the landscape he had been raised in. He told Gawain so much and, to his surprise, the man asked if he could see his drawings sometime. It made Lancelot blush a little, assuring that they weren’t that good, but the ranger only said he was rather certain the younger man was being too modest.

They walked side by side exchanging quips and lending a hand around slippery patches of land. Gawain’s hands were warm, and calloused, and - 

Lancelot’s mind stuttered. Being around the ranger felt so natural. He could speak his mind and did not fear the repercussions. More than that, it felt like he could rely on him. That, if he slipped, he wouldn’t let him simply fall.

By lunch time, they had reached the Rio Grande. The river was truly majestic. Gawain proposed to sit at the edge of it to eat lunch.

The ranger went to sit on a rock while Lancelot took the small pack off Goliath’s back, and led the horse to the water, before joining him. Gawain’s heart gave an uncomfortable squeeze when he saw what Lancelot’s pack contained: a tankard of water, an apple, and a piece of old black bread. He had thought this might happen and packed in consequence.

“Give you one of my sandwiches if you split that apple with me.” He thought bartering might be more likely to work to succeed than just offering. Lancelot cocked his head, suspicion plain in his light eyes. Gawain just dangled the appealing roast beef sandwich under his nose until Lancelot giggled - actually giggled - trying to swat him away until he lost his balance and fell on his back. He took a knife out of his pocket and split the apple in half. They ate in amiable silence.

When they were done, Gawain looked up at the canyon and said: “wander how’s the view from up there…” And who was Lancelot to refuse him? They made their way up the extremely narrow paths to the tall ledge of the canyon, overlooking the massive river.

They made it to the top - not without a few slips - breathless and completely soaked from the afternoon sun. They sat on a ledge to catch their breath, letting their eyes roam over the tranquil valley. It was a clear day and your eye could wander as far as the desert plains permitted it. It was always calm in these parts. That’s what Lancelot enjoyed the most about it.

Lancelot turned to look at his friend, satisfied they had made it to the top. He did not expect to find his face drenched in tears.

“Gawain? Are you alright?” he lifted his hand but arrested it just short from the other man’s shoulder, unsure if he could touch him unprompted. The other man did not seem to notice, entirely enthralled by the landscape.

“I never thought I’d find myself here again. It still feels like home. Even after every fucked up thing that happened here. Is it crazy that I missed it?” the last part seemed to be more to himself than anyone else.

Lancelot wasn’t quite sure what to do. Then he remembered that whenever he felt uneasy, Gawain or Yeva would prompt him with simple questions. 

“I didn’t know you were from here.” And while it wasn’t a question, it did seem to take him out of his reflexion.

“I was. I left.” He explained in a voice that tried it’s best to mask deeply entrenched pain.

“Why?”

“Because this place took everything from me.” He sighed, removing any trace of tears with the back of his hand. Settling himself a little, he told the younger man about the death of his family - every gruesome detail. They sat in silence for a while, Gawain surveying the never ending sandy wastes while Lancelot took in every detail of his face, wondering why he felt the urge to encase it inside his hands. Well, he wasn’t completely clueless, he understood that it had something to do with having felt some of the things that were so plain now on Gawain’s face.

Lancelot gathered his courage. “Does it ever get better?”

Gawain searched his eyes for a long moment, uncertain whether he should answer that question with the ugly truth. There was a vulnerability there Lancelot suspected was a rarity. 

“I’m gonna tell you something, Lancelot. I think you need to hear it, or at least I think I need to say it - never found someone I thought might understand... You can’t just remove hurt from your skin like it never happened,” he took his hand, in a slow deliberate motion, and began tracing the scars that peaked out of his sleeve. It made his breath hitch and his skin tingle in a way he’d never admit to himself. “Even when you leave, you’re marked for the rest of your life.”

He gave him a sad smile, choosing his next words carefully. “My father was not a good man, in just the ways I suspect yours isn’t either." Lancelot opened his mouth, as though he was about to argue, but clicked his teeth back together, holding his broken arm close to himself. Gawain waited for him to settle before continuing: "His fingerprints aren’t visible on my skin anymore, but I still feel dirty whenever I’m reminded of him. The bones he broke healed many years ago, but I sometimes still flinch when someone raises their voice. And I’m a full grown ass man!” He shook his head in disapproval at himself. “Worse than that, sometimes I think I hear my little brother laugh and I have to take a second to catch my breath. Other times, I get a whiff of his favourite bubblegum in the groups of teenage kids that come to Yosemite and I have to step aside to throw up.” 

He sighed, looking once again in the distance. “Honestly, I don’t know that it ever goes away. You just gain experience in dealing with the pain.”

Lancelot took in the words, storing them neatly as he suspected he would need them later. He followed the slow circles of Gawain’s thumb over his hand, biting the inside of his cheeks. He barely knew him, but he didn't like the idea of the man having ever gotten hurt.

“I’m sorry.” He tried.

“Whatever for?” Gawain retorted. He had regained his composure surprisingly quickly for something that seemed so raw.

“That this happened to you. That it’s still happening.”

Gawain down to the ground, continuing so low the words almost didn’t survive his mouth. “I could say the same of you.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Race you down the canyon?” He added with a smile that was obviously rehearsed, but still incredibly compelling.

It made wires touch inside Lancelot’s head, sparks and fireworks exploding. The man was already bolting dangerously down the hill before he could agree, chuckling like a madman.

Lancelot couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely laughed.

***

When they finally made it back down to the parking lot, the sun was already setting.

Goodbyes are always awkward on first meetings. Especially those where you feel like you’ve known the other person your entire life. The rules of propriety lose their tactfulness.

“Gawain? I just -” it was sometimes hard for him to put words on his thoughts and feelings, “I wanted to say thank you. For writing your phone number in that booth.”

The man smiled at him gently. He couldn’t help himself, and pulled Lancelot into a tight hug. At first, the young man was as tense as a slab of concrete, but he slowly eased and even returned it awkwardly.

“You know,” said Gawain, letting him go, but keeping a hand on his shoulder. “If you ever wanted, you could come to California. I know the 800 000 acres of the Yosemite park like it’s my own backyard. And you can bring your sketchbook. I’m sure you would like it.”

He spoke more and more quickly as he got excited, his eyes were sparkling in a way that Lancelot couldn’t really decipher.

He nodded and gave him a small, but sincere smile. “I think that would be great.”

“Okay, great! It’s an open invitation you come whenever you’d like.”

Gawain waved at him as the young man trotted off on his horse. Lancelot turned back once to flash him a large grin and - was that a blush?

As he drove away, the ranger’s only thought was:  _ I’m in trouble _ . And, oh boy, wasn’t it the best kind.

///

After Gawain had left, Lancelot hadn’t been able to rid his head of the man. Most of his work was manual, so it left plenty of time for his mind to wander - places…

He’d even found himself sketching his face at one point. It had been surprisingly good too. He burned it, horrified with himself. Horrified that the smell of pine needles and bergamot seemed to weave its way through his every waking moment to catch him unawares. Horrified when he woke up from the dream of eyes so green they were like the bottom of a lake.

He had to keep busy. Idle hands are the devil’s work, so they said. 

So, to reign in his errant mind, Lancelot had begun reading the book Yeva had given him. He could only take it out from under his floorboards when he was certain everyone had gone to bed and were sound asleep. The story was compelling, but he hadn’t expected it to make him blush so furiously and so often. 

He knew what he was reading was very much forbidden. But - something in the relationship between Patroclus and Achilles awakened a yearning in him that he couldn’t quite wall off, as he did everything else.

He kept rereading the same passage over and over again.

_ “Surely, I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell me I did not.” _

_ “You did not.” _

_ “There is this, too.” His hands were ceaseless now. “I know I have told you of this.” _

_ I closed my eyes. “Tell me again,” I said.* _

His mind kept wandering to the solid frame of Gawain.

He wondered what the man’s hands on his skin would feel like. Gentle with a hint of command, bringing sinful scenes to lazily unfurl through his head.

He imagined how the man would kiss. Hard, hungry, tender -  _ breathless _ .

He imagined what kinds of things he might whisper in his ear as he -

He opened his eyes, an unmistakable hardness settling between his legs. He panicked, throwing the book across the room. No - he couldn’t think of Gawain that way.

There was so much of his life he had been called to actively question in the last couple of weeks, but there were some lines even a wretch such as he was not ready to cross. He hated the small part of him that told him that if such books were written, the prose sliding on the paper as easy as God-made rivers on this earth, it might be alright to let his imagination wander. Yet, another part of him screamed that it was unnatural, that he would burn in Hell for even allowing the slithering thought. Besides, Gawain was good, and kind, and shined oh so bright - he would not allow himself to taint him with his own sins.

He scrambled up, picked up the book, hid it in his backpack, and got his whip. 

///

The following day, Lancelot stormed into the Crossroads and abruptly set the damned book on Yeva’s desk. She arched an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “Done with it? You can keep it, you know. It was a gift.”

“Thank you, Miss Yeva, but I couldn’t finish it. I would like you to take it back.”

The woman took him in. He was tense, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days, and he was much more fidgety than usual, like he would fly away if he spooked. She knew what was going on, but wanted to see if she could coax it out of the boy. “Why?”

Lancelot's eyes darted at his feet, like every time he was uncomfortable. He looked so small sometimes, remarked Yeva to herself.

He remained silent as though horrified by the words that wanted to leave his mouth. Yeva chose her next words carefully. This was a conversation worth having and she wanted it to be as smooth as possible.

“Is it because of the narrative? Patroclus’ love for Achilles?”

The boy deflated slightly. He nodded slowly and began pacing. “It shouldn’t be allowed. It’s unnatural.” He said so low that it almost didn’t have enough momentum to reach Yeva’s ears.

She scoffed. “Lancelot, it’s the  _ most  _ natural thing.” The boy gave her a tentative look, questioning. She shrugged. “Love is love, my boy.”

The diminutive made him give up a bit more of his tension - it made him feel like she’d carved out a place for him in her household. 

And what a household it was. With Polly, whom Yeva hadn’t been able to marry until a few years ago - the wedding pictures proudly displayed anywhere they would fit - and they’re daughter, Morgana, fast becoming his friend and much sweeter than he had first believed. Seeing them move around each other, around the small daily moments that amount to a life, Lancelot often found himself feeling like an impostor.  _ Love is love _ , he turned the phrase in his head. She made it sound so easy.

He found that he did not mind it if it was Yeva and Polly. They were not from the faith, the error of their ways was obviously unknown to them.

“The Book of Mormon says that it is a most abominable sin. Even above that of shedding innocent blood and on par with denying the Holy Ghost.”

The librarian really did her best not to burst out laughing. Living in Texas and being blatantly queer, she’d heard her fair share of doctrine, whether she wanted to or not. Still, she had an interest in the spiritual that was purely intellectual and it came in quite useful at times - she’d picked up a few arguments over the years.

“Right! Well, y’all also believe in some parts of the Bible right?” Lancelot nodded. “What if I told you it’s not wrong because God created us in his image? And that God gave us this great capacity for love, just as She has for the entirety of Her creation. Wouldn’t you agree that the only sin then, would be to deny the love that God has put in your heart?”

Lancelot was about to tell her that she was using the wrong pronouns, when it suddenly occurred to him that the people who had shown genuine empathy around him were all women - safe for Gawain. He found it hard to disagree with her point. He would have to think about it.

Yeva approached him and put a hand on his crossed arms - a vain attempt at protecting himself from her dark piercing eyes. She had a wide grin with that hint of mischief that told Lancelot he’d been had. “So. Who’s the lucky boy, Lancelot?”

If he could have turned into water at that moment and evaporated, never to be seen again, he would have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Excerpt from The Song of Achilles


	7. Bite the Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up folks! So, for this chapter, the pieces do not follow an orderly timeline. Just bare with me: it’s a bit disjointed.
> 
> I have a system! ‘///’ are for a change of time/place and ‘***’ is for a simple change of scene.
> 
> It’s a long one, but I had to get it out of my head.
> 
> Music inspiration: Short Change Hero - The Heavy; Bottom of the River - Delta Rae; Broken Crown - Mumford & Sons; Dilaudid - The Mountain Goats

Lancelot had known, happiness never lasts. Not in this house. Not in this lifetime.

But he had tried anyway, hoped against his better judgement that there might be a way out.

And now, he was going to watch the reason for most of the happiness he had ever experienced bleed out to death, unable to stop any of it.

/// ****

**Day 1**

The attic was just as dry and uninviting as he remembered. He had spent a lot of time up there as a child - always getting in trouble for one thing or another. 

After father had finished his sermon and the admonishment that went with it, he had picked himself up and crawled his way to a corner, propping himself against the shaky boards next to the only window - he needed the light coming through the dirty glass to assess the damage.

His leg hurt badly and his skin was so battered that he was fairly certain not an inch of it wouldn’t be purple. Plus, his ribcage was uncomfortable. Passing a hand over his ribs, he found a few cracks.

His father’s words kept running again and again in his head like a skipping record.  _ You’ve always had a penchant for devilry, my son. But the Lord has gifted you with a life here, a chance at redeeming your soul. Why do you insist on squandering the gift our Lord has imparted to you? Do not think I have not noticed your little Sunday escapades. I have let my fondness for you cloud my judgment. But no more.  _

Being at the center of father’s attention had never been a good place to be, he thought loosely as he slowly lost his grip on the present moment.

He could only hope the child had made it to safety.

///

Morgana smacked a piece of paper in front of him on the picnic table where they were taking advantage of the last rays of sunshine on this warm Spring afternoon. Such a brusque movement should have startled him, but the woman’s motions had become incredibly familiar to him. Despite her menacing exterior, she had been nothing but good to him.

“No.” He said simply, not bothering to open his eyes, letting the warmth submerge him.

“Oh come on!” Pleaded the woman, poking his cheek lightly with a pen. “Your work is really,  _ really  _ good Lancelot. I’ll take care of everything else! All you have to do is fill out the form.”

“Morgana,” his exasperation was plain, “I am not submitting any of my drawings to the Chinati foundation competition.”

“Why not? Are you afraid or somethin’?” She was taunting him.

“I’m not. I just don’t see the point. It’s not as if it were as good as any of the other stuff.”

He could see Morgana try to master the knot of frustration forming on her forehead.

“Lancelot,” she started patiently, “Do you believe that I got to where I am as an artist and a curator by having no taste and not knowing what the fuck I’m talking about?”

He looked up at her, sensing a trap. “No.” He tried carefully.

“Correct! Second question, do I look like the type of person who distributes compliments willy nilly?”

At this point, Lancelot was twisting his sleeves in a nervous tick. “I -” He spared a quick glance over her ominous silhouette, “I don’t think so? No.”

“Correct again! So if I say your work is good, you know that I mean it. And if I need to bully you into entering that contest, you can bet your skinny ass I will.”

Lancelot smiled gently. She had a way of making fun of him that he knew she meant as an endearment. Still, showing his work made him uncomfortable in a way that he couldn’t quite describe. 

His art - especially the pieces Morgana was interested in - had been born out of some of the more painful moments in his life, or from the anger that threatened to simmer out of him at any given moment.

Simply put, this was something he did for himself and no one else.

“I appreciate it, Morgana. But I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Morgana pouted, but gave a nod of understanding. “Well, at least keep the form. If you change your mind, let me know.”

***

When Lancelot came back from his day in Marfa that night, he was surprised to find his father at the kitchen table with a small boy.

“Ah Lancelot! There you are. We missed you today,” said the man with his eyes that promised kindness but contained none.

Lancelot advanced in the light, folding unto himself, trying to make himself smaller than he was. He stopped when he was almost next to the boy and at least an arms length out of his father’s way.

The man waited for him to say something, looking at him with the gentle smile that couldn’t help but contain a threat. “I’m sorry I’m late. I did not see the time fly.” He kept his voice low, but clear.

Carden hummed, but seemed to dismiss the issue rather quickly. He was in a good mood. That was all too rare and mildly concerning.

He gestured to the boy who was attacking a bowl of stew like his entire life depended on it. “This is Percival. He will be living with us from now on.”

Only then did Lancelot allow himself to truly look at the boy. He was probably no more than 8 or 9, although his small stature may have been a false indicator.

The boy came out of his frantic shoveling to look him up and down. He was sporting a fresh black eye and his eyes were red rimmed from crying. It made Lancelot’s heart drop into the depths of his stomach, seemingly never to be retrieved - he was too young for this. 

“We’ll set him up in your room while we figure out where to put him,” father continued.

Lancelot nodded and patiently waited for the boy to be done before showing him upstairs.

***

He let the boy have his bed, settling himself on the floor right next to it. It didn’t take long for him to hear the small sobs racking the boy’s body. He was obviously doing his best to be quiet, but failing miserably at it.

Lancelot couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let him cry himself to sleep.

He got to his knees.

“Percival?” The boy was on his side, his back to him. There was no answer. He shuffled up to the small bed, too small for his long limbs, but big enough for the tiny child. 

He carefully placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy jolted up, batting his hand away. “Don’t touch me, ya burnt boot!” he exclaimed in a harsh whisper.

Lancelot gave the child some space, dismissing the insult. “I’m sorry,” he offered, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the house. The boy was now wiping the tears that kept coming off of his face. “Are you alright?”

Even in the dark, he could sense him roll his eyes. “Does it look like I’m alright?”

Wow, this kid really had a mouth on him. Lancelot could have appreciated it, if he could push out the multiple things that would be done to him if he used that tone with father or his brothers out of his head. 

“You’re right. Stupid question.” At least, it seemed like he was calming down. “Percival?” He tried again.

The boy scoffed lightly. “Squirrel.”

“What?”

“My name is Squirrel. Or at least, it’s what my mom used to call me…” New tears formed at the corner of his eyes.

This was a bad idea, but he needed to ask: “Where’s your mother now?”

Squirrel looked at him now, his eyes shining with water in the moonlight coming through the window. “She died. Cancer.”

“I’m sorry.” The boy nodded more out of habit than actual understanding. “You don’t have any other family.”

He shook his head. “I’m all alone.” A new sob wracked his small body.

“Hey,” Lancelot’s hands hovered over the boy’s back. “You’re not alone. I’ll make sure of that.”

And he meant it. Something about the small boy made him want to use his own body to protect him. He swore to himself that no one would touch him - the cost did not matter.

The boy scooted over and made some space for him, patting the mattress next to him. Lancelot climbed up and the boy slid under his shoulder, burying his face in his side. The tall man didn’t dare move. He was not particularly used to children, but he found himself liking this one inexplicably.

“Would you tell me a story?” The boy seemed to hesitate before continuing. “Mom always told me stories before I went to sleep.”

Lancelot thought for a little.

“Not too far from here, there’s a creek that travels all the way to the Rio Grande. My sister, Celia, said that there’s an angel in it. She saw it once when she was playing by herself when we were kids. She was picking up rocks in the creek when she cut her foot on a sharp rock and the angel swam to her, attracted by the blood. Now, Celia is very brave so she looked right into its fifty eyes and asked it, ‘how come you’re down here, shuffling pebbles, when you could be in heaven making music with your brethren?’ She said that it had wings made of anacua branches and a halo of polished glass. The angel just smiled at her with sharp teeth, and told her, ‘God has plans for the minnows, the diamond backs, and the blue-bellied hummingbirds too, little girl.’ And then it left.”

Squirrel yawned. “Can we go look for it?”

“Ah! So you’re a brave kid too? Yes, we can go look for it,” Lancelot let a small fond smile pull at his lips. “But first, you need to sleep.”

The very next day, he took the boy out to the creek and they looked for the angel for hours.

///

**Day 2**

His knee was dangerously swollen. He couldn’t move it without sending jolts of pain all the way into his jaw. His shirt was drenched in cold sweat and the blood of his back refused to coagulate.

He was somewhat certain that it was midday by the position of the sun, but his head swam so heavily that he couldn’t be sure.

He had nudged off again involuntarily when the loud clang of a water container jolted him awake, making him grab for his stomach, hissing through the pain.

Looking up across the door, he saw Iris eyeing him disapprovingly. She pushed the canteen a little further in with her foot. She turned her back to him and before locking him in once more, she looked over her shoulder and whispered: “You brought this on yourself.”

The words only mildly registered inside Lancelot’s skull. He was too parched to really inspect them. 

The few meters that stretched between him and the water seemed an impossible distance. Still, he slumped to the ground and used his arms to slide himself towards it, his ribcage screaming that they could not support the rigors of physics at this precise moment.

He only made it halfway before his vision darkened.

He should have been in Marfa that night. He had made it to the last round of the Chinati art competition. 

Yes. When he had spoken to Celia, she had been so delighted with the idea that it had convinced him to register. Morgana had looked smug as hell.

Hopefully, no one would notice his absence.

///

“Gawain…”

“No, stay put. I’ll call the cops and they can come and collect you and -”

“Gawain - “

“ - and then both of you will be safe and I’m going to drive down to you right -”

“ _ Gawain _ .”

This time, his voice was louder and more determined than usual. There was an edge of impending doom to it that made Gawain click his jaw shut.

He heard Lancelot take a deep breath.

“Gawain. You are too good a person and an even better friend. I know you want to help us, but whatever your intent, do  _ not _ do anything.” He practically hears the man deflate on the other end. He needed to give further explanation, otherwise Gawain would probably do something stupid. “My father has been preparing our home for some kind of assault for as long as I can remember. If the police were to suddenly come down on us, they would be met with resistance and bullets. Squirrel  _ will _ get caught in the middle of it and I do not want that.”

Gawain didn’t like this. He didn’t like this one bit. But he gave a low growl of ascent.

“Fine. Just - what can I do?”

“Just wait. I’ll come up with a plan to get the boy out of here, and then I’ll tell you what I need from you.”

There was a moment of silence.

“What about you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Lancelot -”

“I have to go.”

He hung up.

***

“Ok so, don’t be mad.” This conversation was off to a good start, thought Lancelot to himself. “I may have contacted your sister to ask her for some advice.”

“You did  _ what _ .”

“I know! I’m sorry.”

“Gawain -”

“I take it back: you can be mad at me all you want! But she’s here now and she wants to talk to you.”

Lancelot fell into stunned silence, unable to continue his line of thought or even to breathe for that matter. There was shuffling on the other end and an all too familiar voice picked up.

“Lance? It’s me. It’s Celia.” This was too much. He couldn’t breathe. The pressure was rising in his lungs and the familiar placating hands of panic pressed on his chest.

A soothing voice pulled him back to the surface in delicate tones, bringing back a memory of warm hands belonging to kind eyes encasing his face and following his breath. “Lancelot? Deep breathes, little brother. Count to five.”

It worked every time, his breathing evened out.

“Celia?” he croaked.

“Yeah Lance. Everything is gonna be okay.”

///

**Day 3**

He had wanted to believe Celia when she had told him everything would be fine. Oh boy, had she been wrong, Lancelot laughed, delirious with fever.

He hadn’t eaten in three days, each breath he took was rattled with a wheeze, and he couldn’t feel his leg anymore. The skin of it was slightly purplish and it was oozing and - 

God, he couldn’t look at it without feeling nauseous. He felt so cold. His teeth were chattering and he has intermittent tremors that leave him even more exhausted than before. 

At least, he had made it to the water. The numbness had also allowed him to return to his spot near the window. Sitting there scraping at the dirt on the glass so he could see outside, he thanked God none of the people who had come to care for him had shown up yet. He prayed that they would move on and forget about him. That they would never know that he died pitifully for his trespasses, and deserving every bit of his fate.

**///**

“Is this Gawain?”

The voice at the other end was alarmed and unfamiliar. Yet, it was the same number Lancelot usually called from, if it wasn’t the burner he had picked up recently.

“Yes?” He answered.

“This is Yeva. Lancelot’s friend? Listen, you have to get down here. I think something went terribly wrong.”

As the woman explained how Squirrel had made it to the shop in the middle of the night on Goliath’s back without any sign of Lancelot, his chest constricted progressively until he would spit out his heart at any moment.

“I’m on my way.”

///

“What are you doing?” came a quiet voice from the staircase that led up to their rooms. Iris stood at the bottom of them, right in the door frame of the bathroom, her glare burning holes in his skin.

He had been placing his burner phone under a loose tile in the bathtub - he had multiple hiding spots in the house, making sure he was never caught for more than one sin at a time. But this one - this one was rather monumental.

_ Shit _ , he thought.

“Iris -”

“You’re not supposed to have one of those.” She said, her lips thinning into an expression of deep disappointment. “I’ll have to tell father. I’ll also have to tell him all about your sneaking around too.”

Lancelot’s heart dropped. “That’s right! I’ve been watching you,” she was vociferating barely under her breath. “Where do you go on Sundays? You’ve been up to something nefarious, I can tell -”

“Iris, I’m leaving.” This had the desired effect and she shut her small mouth. Her eyes grew in size and then narrowed. “Leave like Abel or Celia?”

He took a deep breath. “Like Celia.” He told the truth, although he knew she would have preferred to hear ‘like Abel’, which would have meant he would come back.

“Iris, listen. You could come with us.” He tried, holding Iris’ small hands in his own. She was so scrawny for her age. “We can start an entire different life away from here. You could go to school - ”

She slipped her hands out, holding his gaze as if he were insane. And, honestly, maybe he was.

“Us?”

_ Fuck _ .

He nodded, but said no more. A million considerations seemed to fly around her head before she said: “Let me think about it.”

And with that, she turned on her feet and went back upstairs.

Lancelot listened carefully to make sure her steps led back to her room and not that of their father.

They did not, but he knew it was only a matter of time before she decided to tell him. He just knew she would never leave here of her own volition.

He would have to speed up his plan.

***

His first mistake had been to tell any of his plan to Iris.

The next had been to leave Squirrel alone in the stable as he went to fetch something he had forgotten inside the house - he couldn’t leave without his sketchbook. He wasn’t an idiot for not thinking about it before.

He returned swiftly to find Halle towering over the boy. To Percival’s credit, he was standing his ground, stubbornly.

The large man grabbed him by the collar.

“Let him go,” he said firmly.

Halle turned around, dragging the boy like he weighed nothing. “Or what?”

“Do not test me, brother,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do not underestimate my ability to break every single one of your bones into pieces like you have mine. I will burn and ruin you if need be. Let the boy go.”

Halle grinned and raised his hand slowly, threatening to hit the boy. He had swore he wouldn’t let that happen.

Lancelot lunged, ramming into Halle, who staggered to the ground. Lancelot didn’t look like much, but he could pack a punch when he needed to.

While Halle lay dazed on the floor, he grabbed Squirrel and practically shoved him up Goliath.

“You know where to go?”

The boy nodded. “Good. Don’t turn back.”

He hadn’t planned on this. But they would have to make due.

Goliath bolted out of the stables and into the night. He didn’t wait for Halle to get back to his feet before bolting towards his truck.

He found Wicklow leaning against the door. A gun strapped to his side. “Iris told me a very interesting story, dear brother. Care to explain yourself?”

He turned on his heels and ran in the other direction. Something heavy hit his knee and he tumbled to the ground, gasping in pain

Halle laughed humorlessly. “Where ya going, cowboy?” He stepped on his knee and Lancelot felt something crack and move. He let out an undignified grunt of pain.

Wicklow put a hand on the tall man’s shoulder before he could perform more damage on their youngest brother. “Now, now. There’s no need for that. Lancelot, just - come back to the house and we’ll figure everything out.”

Lancelot shook his head in a slow deliberate motion. “I am not going back there. You’ll have to drag me.”

Wicklow gave him a wolfish grin. “With pleasure.”

///

**Day 4**

He was so weak, he thought he had dreamed the familiar voice when it rose again from the courtyard.

“Look sir, I’m being an awful lot more polite than I ought to be. I’m gonna ask again: where is Lancelot?”

Lancelot’s eyes shot open in horror.

No. 

No, no, no, no. That  _ fucking _ idiot.

He used all of his remaining strength to hoist himself up to the window ledge, peaking through the hole he had been able to clear. The sun was setting, but it was still clear enough that he saw Gawain, standing in the parking space and Carden little ways away, his brothers in tow.

“And I’m asking you one more time: get off my property.” Carden’s voice was loud and clear, leaving no space for arguments.

But Gawain stood his ground. “I’m not leaving without him.”

That stubborn oaf.

That’s when Celia exited Gawain’s car, her hands up in an attempt to make the situation less threatening.

“Celia?” came Wicklow’s voice. Both he and Halle were so taken aback that they lowered their guns.

“Father, please,” she pleaded, “We just want to make sure that he’s okay.”

“I should have known,” Carden said, anger plain in his voice, “I should have known that his little escapades were motivated by you, my daughter.” He spat in her general direction. “You were always as anathemized as he is. But now you have brought him down with you.” 

He cocked his gun. Gawain gently pushed Celia behind himself. “Whoa now, there’s no need for that. Just so you are aware, we have called the local law enforcement. If they don’t hear back from us in the next 5 min, they will be coming down here to check on us.”

There was a long pause. Lancelot’s heart was beating so fast, yet it seemed like time had stopped. He refused to open his eyes, ready to hear a bullet fly.

Instead, the door to the attic flew open and both Halle and Wicklow stepped in.

Wicklow knelt next to him, passed a wet rag on his face to rid it of a few specks of blood and sweat. Then, he threw a coat over his arms and both Halle and he helped him up.

The floor tilted dangerously, his brothers’ hands did nothing to make the world stop rocking like the sea during a storm. He would have been sick if his stomach hadn’t been so empty. 

They dragged him all the way to the front porch. Before exiting the house, Wicklow turned his head towards him and said: “Not a word or a sound, Lance. Understood?” 

He nodded and they stepped into the early night air. Wicklow settled with him on the top stair, letting him prop himself up against his side. He did not so much as wheeze as they sat. 

Halle went to join their father again. “Satisfied?” he grumbled.

Lancelot did his best to keep his eyes open now. Not wanting to miss any of the scene unfolding in front of him. One of his eye sockets refused to follow his direction, but he could see well enough to notice the horror flash across his face. It was gone as fast as it appeared.

“Not entirely. I’ll be taking him with me.”

That’s when the sirens resounded in the distance. Everything escalated so quickly from there, Lancelot wasn’t sure in what order things happened.

“Motherfucker,” roared Halle.

A gun detonated. Gawain faltered to the ground. Celia screamed and moved quickly to the ground, pressing her slander hands to his side.

Lancelot launched himself. He wasn’t sure how - the energy of desperation, if he had to guess - but he quickly found himself crumpling to the ground next to the man.

His eyes were wide with shock and blood spread from between Celia’s fingers. Lancelot placed a hand on the side of his face, dragging his attention away from the pain, whispering soothing words even as he had trouble finding his voice, his throat nothing but fire. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he kept repeating.

A hand grabbed him by the hair and began dragging him away as the cop cars began pouring in. He kicked and screamed as much as his battered body would let him.

He heard someone yell something and then he hit the ground, still warm and dry from the Texas sun.

The last thing he remembered was thinking was that Gawain was going to die and it was all his fault. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii.  
> I know, it's been a while. Sorry.  
> Not completely satisfied with this one, but figured y'all deserved an update ;)
> 
> Music inspo: Happy to See Me - Hop Along; The Bug Collector - Haley Heynderick

Gawain woke up with a start. 

Well, not exactly a start. More like a slow, painful surprise.

The last thing he remembered was hitting the ground, wetness spreading across his abdomen, flashing lights and hands handling him roughly. His slipping consciousness had helpfully supplied that he was going to die. None of it had seemed to matter at the time. He had failed - Lancelot wasn’t safe and Texas was definitely cursed.

Obviously, he had been wrong - except for the last part. The pain in his chest made him grunt and he tried to bring his hand up to smooth it, his movement is restricted. 

Ungluing his eyelids, he followed the resistance to see an IV stabbed in his arm and an ECG wire, beeping low with the sound of his still beating heart. 

The room was filled with the low light of sunrise. He tried to make sense of the unfamiliar space. His chest felt so tight and unstable, it was hard to even raise his head.

Directly next to him, Pym lay slumped in a chair and snoring softly, her hair more of a mess than usual. He couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him as he saw the dribble of saliva that had made its way down her chin and onto her shirt. Unfortunately, it also caused him to seize and cough violently. It sent jolts of lightning down to his bullet wound, making him very much aware of the gaping hole.

Pym bolted upright, confusion and leftover dreams slipping out of her eyes as she made sense of the current situations.

Pym had always been good like that, Gawain thinks while trying to sit up and failing miserably. She is always quick to react in any given situation. She immediately got up and poured him a glass of water before helping him in a sitting position.

The pain was unbearable. It made him see white spots and he didn’t think he’d ever been this aware of each fiber making up the fabric of his middle. Pym pressed the cup in his hand and helped him bring it to his lips.

It tapered out after a while.

“You good?”

He nodded as he finally remembered how to breathe.

“Good,” she said and punched him on the arm, more lightly than she could have, but still - it hurt.

“Ow,” he wheezed half-heartedly.

“What. Were. you. THINKING?” She was obviously furious, but in a caring way.

“Trying to help.” 

It felt like he hadn’t used his mouth in weeks. 

“That worked out fucking great,” Pym grumbled. She still looked pissed. She’d definitely give him an earful once he was in better shape. 

She took a deep breath to cool down her temper. “You had surgery to remove the bullet. It was lodged in your lung and it collapsed. Lucky for you, Celia knew exactly what to do…”

He cut her off. “Lancelot?”

“He’s alive.”

His head hit back the pillow with a wheeze of relief. _ Thank God _ , he thought. The details of the events of the last few days were a bit hazy and he had been terrified that the worst may have happened.

But it seemed like Pym had more to say. She was quiet and hesitated for a second, obviously looking for the right words. 

“He’s... alive. But he’s still here and he wasn’t in great shape when they brought him in.”

Gawain’s breath caught and he began the excruciating task of sliding his legs over the bed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Going to see him.”

Pym rolled her eyes at his wincing. “And how are you gonna do that exactly, genius?”

He attempted to get onto his legs and almost fell over. Pym caught him and stabilized him back on the bed. 

“Jesus… how are you so heavy?”

“I just - I just need to see him, Pym. You’re going to think I’m stupid, but I need to make sure his okay.”

Pym looked him over, her lips pursed in a doubtful line. He gave her his best kicked puppy look, which was very effective even in normal times.

“Stop that,” she warned him. “Fine. I’ll go get a wheelchair.”

She pointed a finger at him while exiting the room. “Don’t move.”

***

As Pym pushed the wheelchair down the corridor, when a resident stuck their head out from a door further ahead saying: “I’m gonna need some help in here!”

A couple of nurses left their station, heading hurriedly for the room.

Pym slowed a little in her track, before picking up speed. “Shit. Not again…” She almost ran into a stretcher as she braked right in front, almost sending a very confused Gawain flying.

She opened the door where they had all entered, revealing a complete utter mess. The ECG lay on the ground, as did a pan and several tools. The bed was astray and the covers made a path towards a hunched figure in a corner, desperately trying to melt into it.

“Look,” the resident was saying, “I just need to change your bandages.”

They approached the figure and attempted to put a hand on their arm to help them up only to be pushed away, making them lose their balance and slump to the ground.

“Don’t touch me!” said the obviously distraught and unmistakable voice of Lancelot.

One of the nurses encroached on him. “If you continue to be unruly, we will have to restrain you.” A pang of fear flashed over his purple and yellow battered face.

Gawain wanted to surge forward or at least to use his voice to ask them to stand down, but found that his body wouldn’t allow him to do anything. Damn getting shot took a lot out of you. 

Pym stepped up, he was grateful when he found that she was way ahead of him.

“Hey!” She said in her best authoritarian voice, “I’m gonna ask you to step away from my friend. He asked you real clearly not to touch him.”

“Miss,” began the resident, “I would ask you not to get involved.”

“And I’m gonna ask you to leave: we made a real specific request, which was granted, for the same resident - Dr Avalon - to come here to change his bandages: it’s the only one his been comfortable with. So, unless you want to find yourself with a lawsuit, I’d step out.”

One of the nurses frowned and took up the patient chart, which was sprawled across the floor. She let out an exasperated sigh. “Arthur, how many times do we have to tell you to check the charts for new updates!”

The resident in question went over, grabbing the chart for himself. By the sour expression that spread on his face, what he found there did not please him.

“My apologies,” he offered, genuine but obviously annoyed. “I’ll send Nimue when she has a minute.”

Once they left, there was a long stretch of silence.

Gawain strained in his seat as much as his condition would allow him. He needed to see him, to assess the damage that had been so evident when he had seen him walk out of that awful house. But the bed obstructed his view. All he could make out was that he was still hugging the wall like his life depended on it, slightly rocking himself.

“Lancelot?” Pym called softly, walking towards him. “You alright there, hon’?”

“I hate it here,” it came muffled through his arms. “They keep touching me when I ask them not to and they give me these pills that make me sleepy… I don’t like  _ any  _ of it.”

She kneeled in front of him. “I know. But they’re trying to help, despite evidence to the contrary. And you’re still pretty badly injured. You kinda need their help.”

There was no response, so she decided to change the subject. “How come you’re alone?”

He finally took his head out of the protective shell of his hands and nodded. There were tear trails all the way down to his neck. He looked so tired, like something no amount of sleep would fix. “Yeva took Squirrel to get something to eat and I told Morgana to take Celia with her… she was so tired she could hardly stay up in her seat,” his hands made fists, making his entire frame tremble with exhaustion, new tears went to join old ones. “I told them I would be fine.”

“Hey, it’s ok. You couldn’t have known this would happen. I’m sorry that idiot didn’t follow instructions. I’ll have a word with the staff to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” It didn’t seem to make much of a difference in his mood, but he did look less tense than when they had come in.

“There’s someone who would like to see you. If you’re up for it of course.”

His blue eyes shot up to her face, wondering what fresh Hell was waiting next to the door. There had already been so many nurses, case workers and police. All he wanted was to be left in peace.

“No, not like that,” Pym reassured him. “It’s just Gawain.”

She could practically hear his heart miss a beat. He looked up over to the door to see Gawain, still sitting in the archway, waving awkwardly at him.

“Can you… can you help me up?” It obviously pained him to ask, like he expected Pym to reject this simple ask.

She did not hesitate. “Of course.”

It was a little difficult to get him to a standing position as he was much, much taller than she was.

“How are all of y’all so heavy and tall?” She huffed.

Gawain had thought something was deeply wrong from how Pym had been talking and the way he had seen Lancelot move in the brief altercation with the hospital staff. Now, seeing him leaning heavily on Pym just to make it a few steps to the bed, the reason was painfully clear. His baggy jogging pants were tied right above where his left knee should have been.

Once Lancelot was settled on his bed, Gawain wheeled himself near the bed, leaving a generous amount of space between them.

Pym left the room, promising she'd be right outside if they needed anything.

Silence stretched between them, neither of them brave enough to break it first. Gawain took the time to look him over, noticing the bandages covering the entirety of his chest and part of his arms.

Lancelot broke the silence first - Gawain shouldn’t forget, he was braver than he seemed.

“I thought you were going to die.” His hands were clenched so hard around his covers that they were trembling.

He rolled himself closer, paying close attention for any sign that he shouldn’t. He placed his hands on the edge in a way he meant to be reassuring. Lancelot followed his every move, like he was calculating their trajectory and where they might lead.

After a while, he added: “I told you not to come for me.”

“I couldn’t leave you there.” Gawain was indignant. Did he really believe he could ever have left him there? Knowing what he knew? A small voice reminded him that he may well have. That he may even have believed he deserved to stay there. 

“They shot you.”

The man acquiesced. “That, they did,” he absentmindedly brought a hand over the wound, “And I’d let them do it again.”

Lancelot did not seem thrilled nor impressed by his heroic gesture and valorous words. “You could have died, Gawain.” He said this firmly, with an edge to his voice that almost made Gawain look down at his feet in shame if it wasn’t for the small quiver of the other man’s bottom lip. “You could have died,” he said again. “And I would have had to live with the knowledge that I killed you. That it was my fault.”

Gawain wouldn’t stand by and let him pile self-loathing on top of everything else. “If I had left you there,” he said gently, “I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.”

He stretched his hand to press his fingers between his. “I would have spent every hour of every day wondering if you were still alive and if you were okay, and knowing that, if I had done something, there was a better life waiting for you. Now, you get to have that. So, please, for my sake, try to stop feeling guilty: I did what I had to.”

Lancelot looked far away for a moment, his gaze in the middle distance, as though he hadn’t really heard what he was seeing. “In any case, I have paid for what they did to you,” he whispered.

Gawain didn’t quite understand what he meant. It became entirely too clear once he followed his tense arm clutched around the thigh of his left leg. The hollowness of the covers standing out like a nightmare.

“Lancelot,” he said carefully, his voice betraying his emotion. “What happened.”

A veil seemed to settle on the other man’s face, cementing it into perfect neutrality. “They had to cut it off. They said that it was infected and that it got in my bone marrow. It was broken and the bone was left exposed too long.” 

Gawain had to stop thinking. Had to stop his mind from reaching places where Lancelot laid in pain on the ground with no one to help him… He reached out to unclasp the hand Lancelot kept firmly fixed to his thigh and rubbed gentle circles on it. He felt the younger man ease ever so slightly, but there was also the almost imperceptible tremble in his jaw.

“Hey, Lancelot?” He tried. The other man turned his blue eyes his way, filled to the brim but refusing to shed anymore. “We’re okay. We made it. We’re safe.”

He didn’t seem convinced, pursing his lips, his head inclining slightly in defeat.

“They’ll find me eventually. They always do. And if they don’t, it’ll be something else. Everywhere I go things always end up bad...”

He choked up.

Had Gawain been more certain of his movements, that he could support his own weight, he would have sat on the edge of that bed and taken him into his arms until the younger man breathed more easily. For now though, all he had were words.

“I promise you this, Lancelot,” he said, searching that face he had fallen in love with the first time he ever laid eyes on it. “I will always come for you. No matter what. And I don’t care how many bullets I have to take if it means you’ll be safe.” 

And he meant it: this man was  _ his _ now. He would never let anything touch a single hair on his beautiful head ever again. He had been through enough. They both had.

Lancelot wasn’t sure what possessed him, but looking into those impossibly green eyes and that earnest face, devoid of all the tell-tale signs that implied a lie or ill-intent, things he had learned to read so intimately, he couldn’t resist. He leaned in and barely pressed his lips against Gawain’s. When they parted and he dared to seek Gawain’s gaze again, his own face a lovely shade of pink, he found it filled with awe.

For the first time since this whole ordeal, Lancelot smiled shily, pressing his forehead against his. Gawain counted that as a win.

“Do you think you can come up here? Dr Avalon will have a fit if I pull a stitch… again.”

Gawain smirked. The bed was low enough that he only had a little trouble hoisting himself up. Lancelot helped him settle down. They fit in each other's arms like the most natural thing in the world.

It was a moment before Gawain spoke again, enjoying the sound of the other man’s breathing and his heart beating against him.

“Come live with me,” he dropped without thinking.

“What?”

“In California. When we finally get out of here.”

Lancelot raised a frowning face to get a better look at his - not quite believing what he was hearing.

“Hear me out. I’ve got a small cabin in the Yosemite park, it's big enough for the both of us. I’ll go back to my ranger business when I’m fit and you can explore and get used to your new… corporation? - and it’s really beautiful, I’m sure you’ll find plenty to draw while you figure out what your next move is.” He was rambling. God, he hated when he rambled.

To his surprise, it pulled a second tiny smile across Lancelot’s lips.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it?” he answered tentatively.

Gawain nodded, a full grin plastered on his face.

The door suddenly opened without so much of a knock, interrupting this perfect moment, to Gawain’s great annoyance.

People began pouring into the room, an excited energy following them, making both Lancelot and Gawain look up in concern. It was Pym, looking apologetic, followed by Morgana with Celia in tow, Yeva and Polly as well as Squirrel, who immediately clambered up the bed and stuffed himself in Lancelot arms - giving Gawain a dirty look - earning a wince from both men and a fond smile from the younger one.

Morgana stopped at the foot of the bed, practically dancing on the spot with excitement.

Lancelot looked her over. “What is it? Why do you look happy? You’re going to scare the child.”

Squirrel crossed his arms and scoffed. “I am not afraid of anything.”

The young man hummed. “You’re right, my apologies. Well then stop, you’re scaring  me .”

But it seemed nothing would get to Morgana at the moment. “Guess what?” She said with an almost manic smile. Next to her, Celia elbowed her side.

“Don’t play games, Morgana. He doesn’t know how to play along and everyone involved ends up getting annoyed.” She stuck her tongue out to her adoptive brother in a childish display. He only frowned.

“Alright, alright. You know that contest I forced you into?”

Lancelot nodded, confusion plain on his face.

“Well, you didn’t win,” she said, but it did not deter her enthusiasm. “But you did get noticed. There’s a person interested in buying one of your pieces and you have had several offers for funding and residences!”

Gawain looked over. Lancelot still had the same expression plastered on his face, not understanding any of what was coming out of Morgana’s mouth.

“It means they liked it and they think you’re talented, Lance,” supplied Celia, helpfully.

An  _ oh _ was his only response, his brain going into buffering mode.

Their attention was grabbed by Yeva dropping a heavy box on a table in the corner. Polly raised her hands in the air and exclaimed ‘cake!’ in childlike glee.

“Oh ya, also that,” Morgana said, “My moms brought cake to celebrate.”

Yeva shoved a plate in their laps, smiling wildly. “Let’s celebrate!”

Gawain looked over at Pym who was looking at her huge piece of cake. She shrugged at him and dug in.

Lancelot looked at his own piece like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

He would obviously need a lot of time to heal, to learn how to exist in a world where not everything was a threat. 

He would to, he realised. But it would be infinitely easier with Lancelot by his side... and the strange amalgam of people he had collected.

There was nothing more he wanted. 


End file.
